


Enough

by Princip1914



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Crowley was Moses' staff, Existential Musings, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Jewish Good Omens (Good Omens), M/M, Misuse of jewish theology, Mixing of Jewish and Christian theology, Pesach | Passover, Post-Canon, the plagues, the tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23568121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914/pseuds/Princip1914
Summary: Aziraphale dabbed at his lips with his napkin, pleasantly sated and more than a little tipsy. Crowley’s wine glass was hanging loosely from his fingertips. He hadn’t sobered up, but something about his tone had changed, become more intense. “You know, if you hadn’t kissed me after the world didn’t end, it would have been enough.”Or: An angel and a demon celebrate their first Passover together.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 128
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Our Own Side





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this shameless fluff, except that Passover is my favorite holiday and it has been beautiful weather here and I’m feeling very tender right now. Also, I haven’t got all the stuff I usually have for celebrating Passover, and I’m not with my family this year (for obvious reasons) so this is a fic about making do with what you have and symbolism and The True Meaning of Pesach (™). Also footnotes.
> 
> CW: minor reference to the transatlantic slave trade

“Mind you now, don’t touch it!” 

“It’s not holy, Aziraphale, it’s just a plate. It’s a thing humans eat off of, not some kind of blessed object...ow!” 

“See,” Aziraphale fixed Crowley with a glare that was far more fond than exasperated. 

“Gosh, it really stings.” 

“As I have told you time and time again,” Aziraphale said, carefully setting an egg down on the plate. “It’s not about if an object or activity has an officially sanctioned blessing, collective human belief has a weak yet non-negligible power of its own--” 

“Spare me the theology,” Crowley grumbled halfheartedly, flexing his hand and shaking his fingers. 

“I just wish you didn’t always insist on learning the hard way,” Aziraphale raised his brows meaningfully at Crowley who squirmed. [1] “Let me,” Aziraphale sighed, reaching out to grasp Crowley’s wrist. Aziraphale blew gently on the tips of Crowley’s fingers and his scowl eased. 

“Feels loads better, thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Azirphale said softly. 

They sat at the table. Well, Aziraphale sat. Crowley lounged. 

“You’re supposed to lounge too,” Crowlely said, gesturing encouragingly. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale dithered, then leaned back half an inch in his seat. “You’re just so much better at it than I am.” 

Crowley smiled at him. “First cup of wine?” he asked, holding up the bottle. 

***

It had started, as so many things did, in St. James Park. 

“Oh, I almost forgot, it’s Passover!” Crowley had exclaimed suddenly, halfway through throwing a pea to a duck. 

“I suppose it is,” Aziraphale said, throwing another pea. 

Crowley had an odd look on his face, almost wistful. “You know, we’ve never actually celebrated together.” 

“Haven’t we?” Aziraphale wrinkled his brow. “We were in _Egypt_ together, dear boy. Although you were quite drunk most of the time. And when you weren’t drunk you were pretending to be a walking stick. I would understand if you don’t remember.” 

“Of course I remember it happening” Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets. “But it’s not about the happening, is it? It’s about the retelling.” 

“Hmmm” Aziraphale agreed. Pollen floated through the spring air and the scent of fresh cut grass wafted over from the playing fields. The afternoon light fell golden through the new leaves on the trees. In a few months it would be a full year since the world tried and failed to end. It was, Aziraphale supposed, as appropriate a time as any to celebrate freedom and rebirth. 

“I do think I have an old seder plate stashed away somewhere in the bookshop,” Aziraphale found himself saying. “I’ll have to dust it off. Shall we?”[2] He offered his arm and Crowley took it, fell into step beside him like this was what they had done for thousands of years. 

***

“This is my favorite part,” Crowley said. He was flushed and very fetching. The first cup of wine had turned out to be rather more than a cup. 

“You always did like to ask questions, you old serpent,” Aziraphale said. Once, it might have been an admonishment or a warning. Now, Aziraphale wondered if it sounded as fond as he felt. The look in Crowley’s eyes told him it did. 

“You’ve got to appreciate a religion that stands by the value of questions.” Crowley said, and burped. “Sing them with me angel?” Once, it might have been a temptation. Aziraphale might have agreed and then worried about it for decades, or turned Crowley down and then felt inexplicably like Peter, whose only sin, after all, was to deny a friend in need. Now, however, Aziraphale leaned across the table, clumsy with happiness as well as drink. 

“You’ll have to teach me my friend,” he said. “I’ve never been the youngest one at the table.” 

“Gladly, Angel. Gladly.” 

***

“I’m afraid we’re quite unprepared,” Azriaphale had said when they got home from the park. He opened several cupboards in dismay. “I confess I really hadn’t planned ahead to have a seder. I don’t suppose you’ve bought any horseradish or matzoh or made some haroset and left it in the icebox?” 

“I’ve told you angel, it’s not an icebox, it’s a refrigerator,” Crowley said, taking off his sunglasses and laying them on the counter. “And no, I haven’t. But we’ll come up with something.” 

“I don’t think we ought to miracle the ingredients for the seder plate,” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands. “Just doesn’t really seem like the done thing, does it?” 

“Relax angel,” Crowley waved his hand. “We can just come up with different symbols. Here--” he brushed past Aziraphale to reach for the window box of herbs. “Parsley is easy. And the rosemary has been sulking ever since I demoted it to the kitchen instead of the front room. Can’t think of a more bitter herb.” 

“What about matzoh?” 

“Crackers,” Crowley said decisively. “Those nice ones that are baked in small batches, which we got from that French place yesterday.” 

“Hardly kosher,” Aziraphale said, but he couldn’t help but smile. “Imagine what Gabriel would say.” 

“Yes,” Crowley murmured and some of his good humor seemed to evaporate. “I doubt the archangels would be pleased to see you make Passover with a demon. You’ll never make employee of the month at this rate Aziraphale.”

“Good thing Heaven no longer employs me then,” Aziraphale said and crowded closer to Crowley, bracketing him against the kitchen counter. The corners of Crowley’s mouth curled up nearly imperceptively. 

“Good thing,” he said to Aziraphale’s lips. 

***

By the second cup of wine, Aziraphale had loosened his bowtie and was leaning back in his chair a fraction more.[3] “Do you remember that absolutely awful haircut Aaron had? I said to him...I said, my dear boy you know you’ll be remembered forever for speaking to Pharaoh. Wouldn’t you like to visit a barber first?” 

“Oh, I don’t know?” Crowley said, laughing. “I liked it.” 

“Of course you liked it, you scoundrel. That’s m’ point.” 

“Hmm,” Crowley said, swirling the wine in his glass, suddenly serious again. “Ok, let's do the plagues.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, “Let’s not. I don’t like remembering this part nearly as much as I like remembering Aaron’s haircut.” 

“I know,” Crowley said. “Neither do I. Blood.” 

“Blood,” Aziraphale said dutifully, and scooped out a drop of his wine onto the plate.

Crowley paused. “Frogs,” Aziraphale prompted. 

“I just--” Crowley said, staring down at the drop of red wine on Aziraphale’s plate. “I guess I just thought that was going to be it. A great cost and then, they were going to be done making each other slaves. I thought She was going to see to it even, see that nothing like this ever happened again.” Crowley drained his glass and snorted. “Season of Liberation indeed. Tell that to the 17th through the 19th centuries. Not to mention most of the 20th.” 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale lay his hand on the worn sleeve of Crowley’s henley. 

“Don’t say ineffable,” Crowley’s arm was tense under Aziraphale’s palm. “Just don’t.” 

“I wasn’t going to,” Aziraphale said. “I was going to say that it’s not up to Her.” 

“It could be,” Crowley said mulishly. 

“It’s up to them,” Aziraphale said. “It’s not even up to _us_.” Crowley sighed deeply and reached for the bottle of wine with his free hand to pour himself a fresh glass. 

“Frogs,” he said, dabbing a drop of wine onto his plate. 

“Frogs,” Aziraphale repeated. He took his hand off his glass and used it to drip wine onto his plate. His other hand stayed on Crowley’s arm. 

***

“Got something to tell you Angel,” Crowley said, sometime after dinner and halfway through dessert. [4] Aziraphale dabbed at his lips with his napkin, pleasantly sated and more than a little tipsy. Crowley’s wine glass was hanging loosely from his fingertips. He hadn’t sobered up, but something about his tone had changed, become more intense. “You know, if you hadn’t kissed me after the world didn’t end, it would have been enough.” 

“What?” Aziraphale frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. What would have been enough?” 

“Oh, you know…” Crowley gestured expansively with the empty wine glass. “Feeding the ducks, going to The Ritz together, the walks in the park, the way you look at me when you want something fixed, The Arrangement the...well, all of it. It would have been enough, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, stupidly, because he could think of nothing else to say. 

“In fact,” Crowley continued in that same soft voice. “It would have even been enough without some of that stuff too. If you’d never let me take you to The Ritz, still would have been enough.” 

“Would it have?” 

“Yes.” 

“And if…” Aziraphale trailed off, unsure if he wanted to know the answer, but it seemed Crowley’s penchant for asking questions had rubbed off on him. “And if I had never given you the Holy Water?” Would it still have been enough?” 

“Yes.” Crowley swallowed and Aziraphale was suddenly struck anew by how beautiful he was, the late evening light playing over the harsh lines of his cheekbones. “Without the Holy Water it would have been enough. More than enough. To meet sometimes. To share The Arrangement. For you to let me get you out of scrapes now and again.” 

“And…” Aziraphale reached further back. “And if I had never spoken to you again after that fight we had in the 19th century?” 

“Enough,” Crowley whispered, lounging closer to Aziraphale. “To get to have thousands of years together? More than enough even if you had ended things right then.” 

“But, Crowley, what if I had never agreed to The Arrangement?” 

“Still enough. Enough just to walk the same earth as you for six-thousand years, crossing paths now and then.” Crowley’s eyes had gone liquid. He was growing his hair out again and one lock of it had fallen in front of his face. Aziraphale reached out and brushed it back, tucked it behind his ear. 

“And…” Aziraphale trembled, fingers still hovering by Crowley’s cheek. “And if we had never been friends at all? If we had met on the wall in Eden and never again?” 

“Bless you angel,” Crowley said, but he was smiling. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” 

“Say what?” Aziraphale asked, and he knew he was being coy even as he said it. It was alright though. Crowley liked coy. 

Crowley took a breath. “It would have been enough, angel. When you held your wing over me to protect me from the rain. If that was all it ever was, it would have been enough.” 

“But,” Aziraphale breathed into the scant air between them. “It was just one tiny moment in eternity. It was one grain of sand in the desert. How could it be enough?”

“I can’t answer that,” Crowley said, and swallowed. “I don’t think any being alive can answer that, not even Her.” 

“Blasphemy,” Aziraphale chided, but his heart wasn’t in it. Crowley was still looking at him with those liquid yellow eyes, like he knew what Aziraphale was going to say. It didn’t matter, Aziraphale said it anyway.

“It would have been enough for me, too.” 

“Right…well.” Crowley cleared his throat and leaned back, his eyes suspiciously shiny. “Glad we got that sorted.” Crowley stood abruptly, scrubbing his palms on his extremely tight jeans. “Guess I’ll just go...um….open the door for Elijah, yeah.” 

He turned, but Aziraphale stopped him with his fingertips on the back of Crowley’s hand. Crowley’s skin was very warm underneath his own. 

“If it’s all the same, I’d rather not invite him in,” Aziraphale said, “after all, he’s supposed to herald the coming of the Messiah and I’m rather fond of the world as it is.” He curled his fingers gently into Crowley’s palm, let his thumb graze the band of scar tissue at the base of Crowley’s ring finger. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said a bit breathlessly, “Yeah, alright. Elijah can wait ‘till the end of time as far as I’m concerned.” He turned his hand to lace his fingers with Aziraphale’s, the way he had that first time on the bus and countless times since. “I’m rather fond of this world too.” 

\----

1. Aziraphale knew they were both remembering an awkward experience several months ago that had ended with Crowley nearly losing the ring finger on his left hand and one very traumatized justice of the peace.↩

2.“Oh, it’s just something small, to remember me by,” Maimonides demurred, handing over the carefully wrapped parcel. 

Aziraphale wiggled in excitement and rushed to tear the paper off. “A plate?” 

“You’re such a holy man, I thought it only fitting for you to have the very best for Pesach.” 

“Yes, well, thank you,” Aziraphale said a bit crossly. “It’s just, I thought it might have been one of your books. Maybe even one with a misprint?” he added hopefully. ↩

3. The second cup of wine was the second cup only in the vague symbolic way that the Union Jack was the United Kingdom. In actual fact, it was the 11th cup of wine for Aziraphale and the 13th for Crowley.↩

4. Dinner had been a delicious pasta entree left over from yesterday’s forray to a new Italian place in the neighborhood. Aziraphale, holy angel though he might be, was also fundamentally unable to let gourmet food sit in the refrigerator for more than 24 hours without being consumed and wasn’t about to let a little thing like biblical prohibition against leavening get in the way of gustatory pleasures.↩

**Author's Note:**

> As you might be able to tell from this fic, I am/was raised culturally Jewish (and Lutheran, but that's another story). Despite this background, I am veerrryyy secular. And, yes, I know that technically the plagues come after the first, not second cup of wine, but artistic license knows no bounds when it comes to the order of the seder. I hope yall enjoyed this fic, regardless of your religious/cultural heritage!
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr](https://princip1914.tumblr.com) if you want to scream more about Good Omens and/or The Good Place, my two current obsessions.


End file.
